


Strange Days

by asuralucier



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Apartment Building Politics, Be Your Best Self, Cat Booze, Cats, Cool Helen, Do Criminals Have Sex? This is a pertinent research question, Dogs, Harlequin AU, John Wick vs. Ikea, John is a kitchen sink this makes sense in context, John tries to be helpful but all he does is kill people, Kidnapping is not funny Marcus, M/M, Marcus's A+ mother, Mysterious Neighbor!John, Pizza, Retirement? What retirement?, Sad sack!Marcus, Sex and Criminals revisited: some are too busy to have sex, Winston Ex Machina, Yeah that probably means what you think it means, and climb roofs, friendly firearm advice, ghostwriting, insane and patently hilarious, meet cute, smoothies, weird references to roles played by both Keanu Reeves and Willem Dafoe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-05-19 14:28:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19358863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: ”Unless he’s a serial killer,” Helen says reasonably. “If that’s the case, you’re shit out of luck.”Marcus is a ghostwriter with really not a lot going on. John is Marcus’s mysterious new neighbor who seems to know a lot about guns and how illegal things tend to work in general. Marcus learns to take advantage of this for um, research purposes.(Also featuring: Marcus’s cat Princess, John’s dog Daisy, and cat booze which is a thing.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ilylynnbelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilylynnbelle/gifts).



> This AU was named for the longest time on my drive as "cats and dogs AU." For the indomitable ilylynnebelle who wanted Marcus as just a very lonely normal guy who drinks smoothies and has a cat who is trying to kill him. Also featuring John, a retired assassin as a new neighbor who is trying to figure out normal life.
> 
> (Because I’m always on this side of extra, there is also avocados, writers’ block, a guy named Chaz Rollo, and Helen being alive and lovely and cooler than you.) 
> 
> Insert caveat here about how I'm a dog rather than a cat person, if I muck up re: cat ownership please let me know. 
> 
> For other reasons, this will not have an insanely quick updating schedule but I hope you enjoy!

Marcus has a degree in creative writing from the University of Iowa. Looking back, he’s probably obtained this degree because there’d been an abundance of free booze and tail. He’d availed himself to one but not the other, and maybe he really should have done things the other way around. Fucked more, drank less. Or maybe he should have managed both, considering that the Hawkeye State boasts very little in the way of entertainment. 

Now, it’s twenty years later, and Marcus wishes that he’d had the good sense to have applied himself more and become something else, something more useful. Maybe a mathematician. 

“ – cian.” 

“What?” Marcus switches off his juicer and splits the bright green slop between two glasses. He hadn’t meant for today’s breakfast to be so _green_ ; probably could have done without that extra avocado. Still, Marcus has a weakness for fruit on sale and avocados are pretty much always in season. 

“I said, sweetheart, that you don’t want to become a mathematician. You’d be living in a cardboard box and still not getting laid.” Helen appears in the archway of Marcus’s fuck-off kitchen. “At least this way you can always afford avocados. Isn’t that right, Princess?” 

The last part of Helen’s statement is directed not to Marcus, but Marcus’s cat, a perennially angry Bombay feline who probably should be dead since she’s about fourteen; according to the Internet, that’s right on the cusp. 

Then again, the Internet also informs Marcus that the Bombay is an “easygoing breed.” So either the Internet is a liar, or the world hates Marcus. 

Still, Marcus thinks that he and his cat get along well enough. His apartment’s big, so that they co-exist and yes, sometimes he has to arrange for painters to come and fill in the scratches left by some of Princess’s tirades. But it’s not as if Marcus doesn’t have money to burn. He doesn’t mind doing it. 

Marcus takes an experimental sip of his smoothie, decides it desperately needs more sugar so he dumps a spoonful of muscovado sugar into his glass and hears Helen clicking her teeth, somewhere behind him. 

“What? I’m going for a jog later. Work it off.” 

Helen thinks for a minute, and then bends to let Princess down again. “When were you going to tell me?” 

“About?” 

“The Netflix thing? It’s _huge_. I read it in _Variety_.” 

Marcus sighs, “It’s not a big deal. Besides, Netflix’s stock is, you know.” (Not that bad, if Marcus is honest, but given the state of their programming, he was not going to be too surprised if the streaming giant’s stocks really took a dive in the coming months. He’s good at thinking ahead, except when he isn’t. See Exhibit A: the whole Netflix debacle. See also Exhibit B: the whole of Marcus’s life.) 

Helen quiets, she goes to Marcus in the kitchen and settles her chin on Marcus’s shoulder, “Have you spoken to Chaz?” 

“Of course I’ve spoken to Chaz. He called yesterday hassling me for notes.” 

“Have you spoken to Chaz about your contract? And the fact that you’d like a writing credit, at the very least.” 

“Chaz couldn’t read a contract even if it hit him in the face in large print,” Marcus rolls his eyes. “And no, I haven’t spoken to Chaz’s agent.” Chaz’s agent was a woman named Angela who was generally unavailable because she was always in the Bahamas nursing her recent divorce. 

“And you’re _okay_ with this,” Helen spins him around by his shoulders and peers hard at him. “You’re okay if Chaz just takes this whole Netflix thing and runs with it straight into a car crash.” 

“He’s got my notes,” Marcus protests, “And yes, I’m fine. I probably won’t even watch it.” 

“Darling, you just said he couldn’t read,” Helen makes a sound that almost sounds like pity. “Can I at least take you out to dinner?” 

 

Here’s the thing: Marcus never expected this ghostwriting thing to come to anything. He’d always had half a plan to somehow fall into advertising or something like that and then die in a cubicle drowning in his own bullshit. 

As far as Marcus could puzzle it out, there are two kinds of people in the world exactly. One, there’s the type of person who unabashedly believes in his own bullshit. His vision is so thick with it, he can’t see anything else. Chaz Rollo is that kind of guy. Chaz Rollo is so much _that guy_ , that he’d even had his name legally changed to Chaz Rollo when the first Rick Masters book made the NYT Bestsellers list. 

Marcus thinks to himself that he is the second type of person. The sort of person who kind of wants to get out of the bullshit life but bullshit is still _everywhere_ so he’s stuck. 

He leaves Helen with Princess and tells her to lock up when she leaves. 

From there, it’s a brisk two-block walk to Central Park where Marcus will run two miles and then go home to bang out a thousand words of Rick Masters counterfeiting Benjamins in a basement while stuck in Albuquerque. Chaz hadn’t been sold on Albuquerque but Netflix had apparently loved it so now Chaz loves it too. Albuquerque is still reasonably cheap and filming on location is vogue. 

“Daisy, hold up!” 

Marcus turns, to find himself being enthusiastically tailed by a beagle with floppy ears. When Marcus stops, the puppy paws enthusiastically at his knees. 

Having lived many years gleaning affection from a cat, Marcus finds her exuberance terrifying. 

“You can pet her,” says the same voice from before. “She probably won’t leave you alone until you do.” 

“Oh, um,” Marcus says. He looks up from the dog to find her owner, a man clearly written for the books because no one looks that cool. Suddenly Marcus feels rather inadequate and silly in his tracksuit bottoms and apparently his mouth feels just as stupid because what he comes out with is: “...I own a cat.” 

The guy says, “Oh.” 

But Daisy doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo and continues to sniff around Marcus’s ankles and the next time she looks at him, a little baleful, he recognizes that look, because he’s seen a few versions of it on Princess. 

So Marcus bends and Daisy takes the initiative, worming her way under his flat palm and she gets him where she wants, apparently behind the ears. “You’re a real go-getter, aren’t you?” 

“She is, yeah,” the guy agrees, and then Marcus looks at him again to not look at his face (definitely not) but instead to spot the worn cover of a paperback tucked under his arm. 

Huh. 

“...Leisure reading?” 

The guy takes the book out from under his armpit and it _is_ indeed a Rick Masters’ novel – _Masters of None_ , with its hideous first edition cover and fuck-you safety orange font. Marcus wants to _die_. Or run away, or both. 

“A friend recommended this,” the guy says, making a show of flipping through the book. Marcus is relieved to see that there isn’t a bookmark stuck in there somewhere. Maybe the guy isn’t exactly reading it and using it as fodder to pass time on the john. “Chaz Rollo is an awful _nome de plume_ , though.” 

Marcus wants to tell him that no, tough shit, Chaz Rollo is the guy’s real name. 

“But otherwise, it’s not bad. Masters probably needs a better gun.” John taps the cover. 

The thing about Marcus writing about a con-man who is also incidentally kind of a gun nut means that he sort of has to be into guns for research purposes. Chaz is into guns the way he is casually into golf, which means he legally owns a Desert Eagle in a state that is not New York, and is otherwise useless. And therein lies the rub because Marcus is kind of not into guns, either. 

Still, Marcus feels the need to defend himself, “It’s only the first book; he does get a better gun.” 

“You’ve read this?” 

“I,” Marcus shrugs. “Yeah. I kind of got forced into it.” 

The guy looks him up and down and Marcus feels something get sucked out of him and not in a particularly nice way. Then he says, “...I’m John, by the way. Let me get Daisy out of your hair.” 

“I don’t mind,” Marcus says, and to his surprise, he doesn’t really. “What kind of gun were you thinking?” Because sure, that’s a question worth asking a stranger after petting his dog. 

John thinks, “Maybe a Browning. It’s a semi-auto and reliable. It hardly jams. Masters likes reliable, right? It’s why he doesn’t share. Doesn’t work with anyone.” Then the man clears his throat, as if he’s inadvertently said something that he hadn’t meant to. Then John nods, gathers up Daisy who gives a little surprised yelp, and tells Marcus to have a nice day. 

Marcus is left staring after John’s elongated shadow accentuated by his long coat: the fuck just _happened_? 

 

It occurs to Marcus only later, after he is stuck having cocktails with Helen on some rooftop bar that he didn’t tell John his name. 

“You should have pretended to be Chaz Rollo,” Helen says. “Even if it is a fucking awful pseudonym. Did he really say _nome de plume_ , who says that?” 

“John does,” Marcus shrugs. “Apparently.” 

“You jog there almost everyday,” Helen touches his hand. “You might see him again.” 

 

The next time Marcus sees John isn’t in the park. It is when he pokes his head out to dust his welcome mat because people who live in this building all have enough money to be this side of judgmental. The last time he’d forgotten to sweep, Mrs. Hedges from down the hall very politely left Marcus a coupon for a local cleaning service. 

John is carrying a cardboard box marked _COOKING_ in blue marker and he balances the box on one hip as he fiddles with his keys. 

Marcus lowers his eyes and figures that he can probably slip back into the apartment without being noticed, but then an excited bark towards his direction gives him away. Daisy again. This time, Marcus is just a little less terrified at her enthusiasm as she tries to squirrel her way under his armpit. 

“Hey, hey. I remember. Right here, right?” 

“You’re,” John has to take a moment, which is fine. Marcus isn’t the most memorable guy, but at least he is not Chaz Rollo, “From the park. You never told me your name.” 

Yes, because he’d been in shock over John’s impromptu firearm advice. Marcus clears his throat. “Oh, it’s. Marcus. Are you moving?” 

“Or trying to,” John says. 

“Here, let me –” Marcus hesitates, “Do you want me to take the box or the keys?” 

“Maybe the box,” John gestures the best he can. “I have to figure out these keys.” 

“Um,” as far as Marcus can tell, there isn’t anything to really figure out. John’s set of keys are pretty standard. One for his front door, a beeper for the building itself, and then the smaller key for the garage and access to the basement. “...What are you confused about?” 

“I usually stay in hotels. Cards are much easier to keep track of, you know?” 

“Kind of, sure.” Or try not at all, but okay. 

But John finally gets his front door open and it turns out the guy has already moved several other boxes, mostly marked _MISC._ So just a regular paranoid Joe, then. Fine. 

“How long have you lived here?” John asks. 

“Years,” Marcus says. “I’m thinking of moving, actually.” 

“Really?” John blinks, “Why?” 

Marcus waffles between telling John about Mrs. Hedges and her passive-aggressive cleaning coupons and the fact that strange gun nuts were moving into the building (present company included). It’s easy enough to dream up these scenarios for a jerk like Rick Masters to get out of and for an idiot like Chaz Rollo to hawk on the late night talkshow circuit. It’s quite another matter to have that sort of thing staring at Marcus in the face.

“I don’t know, never really liked New York.” 

John says, “Then why’d you move here?”

Marcus shrugs, “It was somewhere to be. How many more of these boxes you got?” 

 

In the end, it’s surprisingly economical. John’s _CLOTHES_ , split into _(NORMAL)_ and _(BLACK)_ don’t take any time at all and then there’s a box labelled _DAISY_ and then just another box just labeled _STUFF_. 

“What’s in that?” 

“Just stuff,” John says and nothing else. 

Fair enough. Marcus gets up and heads for John’s front door. He’s starting to feel like he’s in the way, like he does, a lot of the time, and he is eager not to feel that way again. “I’ll leave you alone. Gotta check on Princess anyway.”

“Princess.”

“My cat,” Marcus shrugs. “Didn’t name her, but she won’t answer to anything else.” 

John seems to take this in, “Can I meet her?” 

“You want to meet my cat?” 

“Why not?” John stares back at him evenly. “You’ve met Daisy. Is your cat going to kill me or something?” 

“You say that,” Marcus says. “All right, come on.” 

 

“Must have left the window open,” Marcus says, “Or Helen did. Great.” 

“Helen?” 

“My,” Marcus sighs, pressing a hand to his temple. “Friend.” Yeah, friends will cover it. 

“Do you want her to be something else?” 

Helen is, among a lot of other things, _too good_ for Marcus. He’s not quite sure why she still hangs around, but she’d told him that even if their genitals didn’t seem to get along, she still liked the rest of him, so there. 

“No,” Marcus tells the truth. “It’s complicated.” He peers closer at the window adjacent to the windowsill in the kitchen and finds it open just enough for a cat to slip through. “...Hope she hasn’t gone up on the roof.” 

“But don’t cats like the roof?”

“Not if they can’t climb down, something to do with their center of gravity,” Marcus glances at him. “And our roof access is fucked, so.” 

John thinks to think this over and then he seems to come to a decision, “I can’t fit through that window. Do you have a bigger window?” 

“Do I have a what?” 

John pins him to his sink with another long look and okay, this is just weird, “A window. One that I can fit through. Anyway, I’ll be right back.” 

 

“This is what’s in ‘Stuff’,” John informs him as he outfits himself with a climbing holster and tests the click of what is apparently called a carabiner with an efficient snap of his wrist. “I can get up on the roof.” 

Marcus suddenly needs a drink and a reality to check to go with. “...This. Is some military grade stuff, isn’t it?” 

“Not really. But I was in the military,” John says. Suddenly, things make sense and then they don’t, again. Because John being in the military explains nothing. It doesn’t explain his willingness to jump out of the window of Marcus’s study (carefully now, devoid of any evidence of Chaz Rollo or Rick Masters) and go up on the roof to rescue Marcus’s cat. 

“Oh.” 

John opens the window to the study and heaves himself up to peer out and up. “I can aim to scale between the windows. That way you won’t get any calls from neighbors. It’ll be quick.” 

“How about people down on the street?” Marcus has to concede this being a fairly quiet block as far as New York goes, but a guy scaling up a building would probably catch at least some attention, even if John is trying to be subtle about it while dangling from Marcus’s windowsill. 

John fixes him with a look. “Do you want your cat back or not?” 

“I,” Marcus presses his hand against his eyes and wills his life to go back to normal. No such luck, “Yes, I do. Sorry. I just. You sure you’re okay?” 

“I do this all the time,” John says and pushes himself out the window. 

 

“Did you call the fire brigade again?” Helen says, as if this happens all the time. It really doesn’t. 

“John’s climbing up the roof,” Marcus says. “Don’t think I need the fire brigade.” 

There is a silence, then Helen says, “Sorry... _who_ is climbing up the roof?” 

“John, the guy with the dog from the park,” Marcus sticks his head out the open window and yup, John’s still climbing up the the side of the wall and maybe the view is – nope. “Is climbing up the side of my building.” 

“That’s insane and patently hilarious,” Helen says brightly, “I’m coming over.” 

“Aren’t you working?” 

“I can take a long lunch.” 

Helen hangs up, and Marcus is stuck staring at his phone screen wondering if he should have told her not to come over. Probably. That’s the other thing about Marcus. He always makes sensible decisions this side of too late.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't know what this is guys, but I'm enjoying this so much. Thanks for letting me get away with so much crazy.

John reappears at Marcus’s window, notably alone. 

“...She’s not up there?” Marcus worries. He is usually not so worried; cats will be cats. But none of this is usual, to say the least.

“No, she is,” John holds out his hand and Marcus can see parallel claw marks, still red and fresh, slashed across John’s knuckles. “She just won’t come with me. I did try.” 

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I.” 

“Don’t worry about it, I’m used to pain,” John says, as if again, it’s a normal thing to say. Okay. 

Marcus moves on. It seems to be for the best. He says, “Maybe it’s because you smell like dog.” 

John glances down at himself and gives the edge of his shirt a sniff, “Maybe. – Do you want to come with me? But then you smell like dog.” 

“Yeah, but she puts up with me smelling like worse,” Marcus shrugs. “Wait, what?” 

“Come up with me to the roof,” John says. “It’s going to be fine. This can hold.” He tugs at the rope to demonstrate. 

“That’s not what I was thinking about,” Marcus looks at him up and down. “You only have one of those.” 

John thinks, “Ever used one of these?” 

“No.” 

“Then,” John holds out his hand again. “You’re gonna have to trust me. It will be fine, promise.” 

Marcus peers past John to look down at the sidewalk. He imagines himself splattered on the concrete like a very enthusiastic Rorschach subject test inkblot. He lives on the fourth floor, which means he doesn’t have problems with vertigo really, but past the fifth floor, maybe things start to get a bit funny. 

“I have vertigo,” Marcus says, and then he wishes he hadn’t. There is just something distinctly stupid about it. Uncool. Not that Marcus is otherwise cool. 

“But you live,” John looks down and pushes himself away from the window and dips in the way that makes Marcus’s stomach go and the weird bile mixed with his morning smoothie spurt up in his throat in a way that isn’t at all pleasant, “What, fourth floor?” 

“It’s the precipice of my comfort zone. Please come back.” 

“The precipice of your comfort zone,” John does and actually steps back inside the study and sits on the frame. “Which means what?” 

“The very extremes of what I’m comfortable with,” Marcus says. 

“...So you live in a city you hate and an apartment that you probably don’t like, either.”

“That’s a leap.” Marcus swallows and reminds himself that he probably needs to brush his teeth again. 

“It’s not, really,” John glances at him. “You just said you want to move.” 

“I do,” Marcus shrugs, “And I don’t. I’ll probably never get around to it because I can’t be bothered.” Maybe he shouldn’t have said that either, because John is now looking at him like he’s some little lost puppy. 

It’s not a great look and it makes Marcus’s insides hurt and not even from the promise of coming, stomach-churning vertigo of hanging in mid-air with his new possibly insane but certainly easy on the eyes neighbor. “Let’s...just. Go get my cat. I’ll get some catnip and throw up just in case.” 

 

Marcus doesn’t throw up. But he does get some catnip from the cupboard to put in a paper bag and upon a second thought, he does brush his teeth. 

“What – are the two of you doing?” 

And because everything hates Marcus, Helen finds him trying to mount John in a wholly platonic, but also terrifying way because he doesn’t want to fall down four storeys to his death. 

“...Nothing,” Marcus says and tries to extract himself from – whatever the fuck this is – but then John tightens his grip around Marcus’s waist (which he isn’t going to lie, it’s nice) and pushes them out the window. 

“Going up to the roof,” John says. “You must be Helen. We’ll be right back.” 

“I am going to die,” Marcus exhales. “Holy shit.” 

“You’re not,” John squeezes him again and right. Marcus tries to think about that instead, “Trust me. I won’t let go of you.” 

 

And John doesn’t let go. This means that he manages to scale up the building one handed and the roof is still very high up. 

“I need to sit down.” Marcus says. “Who are you anyway, Spiderman?” 

“Who’s that?” John blinks. 

“You’re not serious. I mean, _Spiderman_ , pretty self-explanatory, right?” 

“I don’t really watch movies,” John shrugs. 

“Or read comic books?” 

“Or that,” John glances at Marcus a bit sideways, “Do you think that’s weird?” 

“I um,” Marcus makes himself as comfortable as he can cross-legged on cracked cement. The whole business with the roof is a bit of a wash. There’d been some talk over the years about doing up the roof into something sexy, but then nobody wanted to deal with contractors and everybody (except Marcus) had an opinion. After he was harassed several times via Google Forms he chose the high road and retired that particular e-mail. 

By the looks of things, the project really did appear abandoned and Marcus racks his brain for the last time he’d even been up here. He couldn’t recall, and the last time Princess had been stuck up here, he’d called the fire brigade. 

“No, I don’t think that’s weird, John. People like what they like. I was just joking.” 

John says, “There’s your cat.” 

Marcus turns around to a soft rustling and a slightly unhappy mewling sound as Princess pads hesitantly towards them, “Hey, old girl. How do you keep getting up here? You smell this, right?” 

“She doesn’t look that old,” John thinks out loud, tilting his head. 

“She is old. She was my great aunt’s before she was mine.” Marcus says, poking the catnip-scented bag towards Princess and clicking his tongue, “ – Come on.” 

The moment Princess pounces for the bag, Marcus lets go of the catnip manages to avoid the claws. Instead, he gets to settle his fingers into her still sleek-black coat and feel the deep contented purr radiating from her spine. 

“Come here, John. She doesn’t bite. Just scratches, sometimes.” 

John seems to hesitate. 

Marcus can’t help but rib him a little. “Thought you were used to pain.” 

“Yes, but I’m not stupid.” John says this, as if he is nearly offended. Marcus has to concede to this, that John might have a point. 

“I trusted you to get me up on the roof,” Marcus gives him a look. “Come on, trust me. Sit.” 

John consents to crouch and his fingers float just above Princess’s head. 

“Not a cat person?” 

John shrugs, “Only got a dog so I could feel a bit less by myself.” 

 

“Yeah. No, I don’t think I’m doing that,” Marcus stands at the edge of his roof looking down. His stomach does a funny flip. 

“You came up just fine,” John opines, somewhere close behind him. “And it’s a nice view. Even if the roof is a bit fucked.” 

“You’re going to go down the roof one handed with me and a cat.” 

John gives him a look, “Done it before.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” 

“Scaled up and down with one arm,” John tells him, “Had to, since my other arm was broken.” 

“Christ,” Marcus looks him up and down. “What were you doing?” 

John has to think, as if the occasion of his having to rappel with only one arm is buried so far back, that he has to specially go and dredge it back up. “Long story.” And that seems to be the end of it, “Is there a service exit or something? Off the roof.” 

“There is,” Marcus gestures. “Somewhere. But it’s locked because kids come up here to drink sometimes and someone complained about it.” 

Marcus scoops up Princess in the crook of his elbow. He estimates that he’s got about ten minutes before the catnip wears off, which he can work with. He trails John to what used to be the door to the roof and watches as the man peers at the lock and tugs at it experimentally with his hand balled in a fist. 

“Okay, no problem,” is John’s conclusion, and before Marcus can ask for details, John aims a kick at the lock and knocks the metal with the heel of his shoe. It cracks into two and John pushes the door open, gestures, “...After you.” 

“What about the –” 

John shrugs, “I can replace the lock tomorrow. Remind me?” 

 

“So John,” Helen tucks her socked feet underneath Marcus’s knees. “What do you do?” 

“I’m retired.” 

“From what?” 

John opens his mouth and closes it, “Well, um.” 

“Don’t answer if you don’t want to,” Marcus says. He is not particularly good at following this rule vis-a-vis Helen for himself. But that doesn’t mean he can’t try to get John set up in good stead. “She’s a journalist. It’s her job to be nosy.” 

“I am not nosy,” Helen rolls her eyes. “I’m just curious, that’s all.” 

Two in the afternoon is possibly too early for wine, but considering that Marcus doesn’t have a real job; Helen is on a long lunch, and John is _retired_ , Marcus isn’t going to feel bad about tipping more Zinfandel into everyone’s glasses but especially John’s. Guy looks like he needs it. 

“It’s okay, I just,” John reaches for his wine, like he needs it for protection. “My job was complicated. I did a lot of things.” 

“We love complicated,” Helen says. She nudges Marcus with her toe, “Don’t we, sweetheart?” 

“Sure. Yeah. We love complicated,” Marcus studies John. It’s the first time he’s had the opportunity to look at the guy sitting down. And there is something about his posture that squares halfway with military training, but then nothing else really makes sense. “...Are you James Bond or something?” 

“Who?” John says. 

“You don’t know who James Bond is?” Helen does a double take, “Really?” 

Marcus supposes that since Spiderman went over John’s head, it’s not so surprising that Bond, James Bond, might also have fallen victim to John’s cultural black hole. “You don’t know who Bond is, and you’re reading Rick Masters.” 

“It was recommended to me,” John shrugs. “I said, didn’t I?”

‘I know you did,” Marcus says. “But...hang on a minute.” 

He is loathed to leave Helen and John alone, even for five minutes because Helen knows exactly how sad Marcus is. Marcus’s rule of thumb about his being sad is that there is nothing wrong with it, but he’d rather not have it broadcast around. Still, Marcus goes into his study and plucks _The Man With the Golden Gun_ off the shelf. He sticks the book out at John when he returns to the living room. “Read this instead. It’s better.” 

“More guns,” John says, turning the book over to peer at the back cover. 

“Yeah.” 

John stares at the book, and then back up at Marcus, “...Thanks. For the wine, too.” 

“Don’t mention it.” And because Marcus catches it, that lingering look that Helen is affixing at the back of his head, he opens his mouth, fully intending to say something ordinary and conversational, like “thanks for rescuing my cat by going up to the roof one-handed.” It is only polite. 

But also, because Marcus comes off infinitely better on paper, and because John does funny things to Marcus’s tongue just by standing there, what he comes out with is: “...Will you remember about the lock?” 

John stands up after that, just on this side of a hurry, but he does drink the rest of his Zinfandel, “Yeah. I should probably get back and unpack. And I’m not James Bond.” 

Marcus is both relieved and a bit disappointed. It is a weird feeling that sits in his gut stewing like fresh bacteria, nearly appropriate to how the day has gone. “Okay. See you around?” 

John nods, “See you around.” 

 

It is only after John lets himself out of Marcus’s front door that Helen sticks another glass of wine into his hand and pats his knuckles. 

She doesn’t bother mincing words. “Wow. Even my nephew knows who James Bond is. What’s this about a lock? What did you do?” 

“He doesn’t know who Spiderman is, either,” Marcus says, determined for once to follow his own advice about not answering Helen’s questions. “Still. He seems nice.” 

”Unless he’s a serial killer,” Helen says reasonably. “If that’s the case, you’re shit out of luck.” 

 

Chaz Rollo (born Chester Rizzoli, which is not that much better, in Marcus’s ever so humble opinion) is a Normal Guy. Just Your Average Guy Next Door Who Happens to Own a Yacht. He is so normal he has to remind you that he is more normal than you on the likes of loud venues like _Buzzfeed_ and the _A. V. Club_. Chaz has gone through midlife crisis after midlife crisis, once married a twenty-two year-old _Playboy_ model for about a hot minute (read: forty-eight hours) and twice landed himself in jail after the police had found crystal in his car. 

It’d fallen to Marcus to bail him out of jail both times and now Chaz Rollo of course, thinks that they are Best Friends.

They are not best friends. As far as Marcus is concerned, there’s a clause in his airtight contract that pays his mortgage that basically says, “don’t make Chaz Rollo look like an idiot who can’t read.” And that, is the only reason he deigns to let Chaz into his apartment on Thursday afternoons.

“Marcus, my _dude_. I brought us some pizza.” 

Chaz is the same age as Marcus, which means that every time he tries to incorporate Internet lingo into his speech Marcus gets a very strong bout of secondhand embarrassment and has to go lie down or pour himself a drink. 

But there is no denying that Chaz’s taste in pizza is exceptional. Marcus is not under any delusions that such fine taste is probably incidental to Chaz’s being a stoner. Only secondary, is the fact that Chaz’s Uncle Vito owns a pizzeria. 

Princess, who is not a fan of Chaz Rollo, hisses and abandons Marcus to his guest, retreating sulkily back into the study, where she knows that pizza isn’t allowed. 

“So like,” Chaz drops himself without fanfare next to Marcus on the couch. “Angie loved your new pages.”

“Which I bet she read in detail while sunning in the Bahamas.” 

“Come on, Marcus, don’t be a dick,” Chaz says, chewing more pizza. “She is really hurting from the divorce. I get it.” 

Marcus is about to remind Chaz that he’d only been married for forty-eight hours, but then it stings. Because a guy like Chaz Rollo is telling him not to be dick. 

Marcus moves on. He morosely chews pizza, tries not to enjoy it, mostly fails. “I hear a but.” 

Chaz looks at him up and down. “But. Netflix has been calling her up asking if um.” 

“Um?” 

“If Rick Masters could be a bit sexier and less of a dick. The guy hasn’t had sex in three books.” 

“He’s a _con-man_ ,” Marcus points out gamely. “He _is_ going to be a dick.” That’s the easy part, Marcus can go to the ends of the earth explaining to the likes of normal people why criminals should be dicks. 

It’s the second thing that he really doesn’t have a defense for. And Marcus really doesn’t want to talk about it. Or even think about it. It’s been long enough in that department that even Marcus’s mother has stopped chasing Helen up for gossip that doesn’t exist. 

“And dicks _have sex_ ,” Chaz says. “Your door’s going, I’ll get it.” 

“Wait.” 

Marcus generally tends to have a sixth sense when something bad is about to happen to him. The feeling pings around two or three times a day. Because his life sucks. 

 

“Hi,” says John, Marcus’s new and slightly insane neighbor. “Can I borrow a screwdriver?” 

“Hi. Do you think criminals have sex?” Chaz asks him.

Marcus’s bite of pizza nearly gets stuck down his windpipe. He hacks loudly, partially because he has to and partially to drown out John’s answer, if he’d given one. 

John says, “Some of them do. Is Marcus here?” 

“Just about,” Marcus picks himself up off the floor and goes to the door. “Hi, John. Ignore him. Do you not have a screwdriver?” It seems odd, that the guy would dig up top of the line roof-scaling equipment at a moment’s notice and be in want of a screwdriver.

“I broke mine,” John tells him. “I promise I won’t break yours.” 

Marcus resists the urge to ask him exactly _how_. He goes into the kitchen and digs out his toolbox from under the sink. 

“Here.” 

While John picks through Marcus’s tools, Marcus can feel Chaz vibrating near the archway of his kitchen. This can’t be good. Marcus’s best bet, he thinks, is to distract John in conversation. “What are you doing, anyway, John?” 

“I bought a coffee table from IKEA,” John says. “I think it’s called IKEA.” 

“And you broke your screwdriver.” Amazing. Who the hell is this guy? Marcus is long enough into his dry spell that staring at John’s toned arms in his white t-shirt is possibly unhealthy. But he’s also aware that John is…

Something. There is something to be said about not sticking one’s dick in crazy. Marcus tries to remember that. 

John shrugs, “I think this is the one that I have. I’ll bring it back.” He peers at a slotted head screwdriver and turns it over in his hand. “It’s okay, right?” 

“It’s...fine,” Marcus says faintly. “I’ll be home all day.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Is he for real, this guy?” is what Chaz Rollo says, after John disappears again. Marcus is kind of impressed that Chaz managed to keep his mouth shut for like the past five minutes because John is just...again, something. “Who breaks a screwdriver?” 

“Maybe we can Google it,” Marcus suggests. “Idiots can break anything.” By “idiots” he means the general populace on the Internet rather than John in particular. 

They do Google it. Instead of returning perfectly reasonable results about how a screwdriver can get broken, they get a lot more hits on how to break into a car using a screwdriver.

(“I accidentally ran over my screwdriver with my car! Can I fix it?” was about the closest they got on that front featured on a subreddit adequately named TIFU. Chaz proudly informs Marcus that TIFU is short for “Today I Fucked Up.”)

“Aren’t you with the times,” Marcus says flatly as he puts his toolbox back in its rightful place. He files “TIFU” away, in case he ever feels like writing his autobiography. It’s now, he thinks, a top contender right alongside “Ways I Try Not to Exist,” which Helen has since vetoed as too depressing. Marcus has since given up trying to convince her that it's a clever meta-comment on his vocation.

“But like,” Chaz looks worried now. “He has a screwdriver. Your screwdriver! With your fingerprints so like he can break into your apartment.” 

Every once in a while, Marcus has to admit that Chaz has a point. He’d like to give John the benefit of the doubt since Marcus doesn’t think that he has done anything to offend the guy. In fact, Marcus would go as far to suggest that he’d been even helpful to John’s existence in his apartment building. 

“John’s not going to do that.” 

“He might not,” Chaz says feelingly. “But how do you _know_?” 

Marcus doesn’t want to admit that he didn’t, exactly. So in the end, he chases Chaz out of his apartment with the promise of sending Angela (and Netflix) some steamy pages by the end of the week. 

...Which is not what he’d meant to promise at all, but it gets Chaz out of the apartment and of course, Marcus is no stranger at all to stretching the truth where it needed to be stretched. Pulp fiction is great like that, in the way that it doesn’t make sense. 

“Will you please at least go talk to a stripper? I know lots of strippers.” 

“Get out.” 

Marcus isn’t proud of it, but he slams the door in Chaz’s face and sits against the door for a minute longer than necessary because. Well, just _because_. 

Finally, he hears Chaz’s distinctive footfalls fade towards the direction of the elevator. It’s not obvious, but Chaz once confessed to Marcus that a motorcycle tire had rolled over his right ankle and no one had bothered to take him to the doctor’s. Just another notch in his normal belt. 

Marcus peeks out of his apartment, finds the hallway empty, and steals next door like he’s some kind of rat. 

He knocks, hears a telling yelp, and then the door unlocks and opens, revealing John and his (Marcus’s) screwdriver. “Oh,” John says. “It’s you.” 

“...Were you expecting someone else?” Marcus looks down the hallway. 

“No,” John admits, looking away. “I don’t have any friends.” 

Marcus stares, recovers, and finds that he still has nothing to say to that. He sucks in a deep breath and says, “Are you okay?” It’s a place to start, at least. 

John sighs, “Have you ever ordered anything from IKEA?” 

“A long time ago,” Marcus has to think. “Do you want me to look at it?” 

Daisy dashes to the door, does a few excited circles around Marcus’s person and barks pointedly at her owner. 

“Somebody does,” John says. 

Marcus is still not a dog person. He doubts that he’ll ever be, if only because dogs (especially Daisy) are just this side of too happy to see him and that again, terrifies him. He bends to scratch Daisy behind the ears the way she likes. 

 

“What about the guy who recommended you the book?” Marcus can’t help but ask. “Hand me that.” 

John does, handing over a fresh-smelling piece of pinewood. 

“What guy?” 

“The guy who recommended you the book I saw you reading in the park. You said a friend told you to read it.” 

John has to think. Then he says, “Oh. That. He’s not really...my friend. I kind of used to work for him. But we don’t say that. That we’re friends. It’s not the safest thing.” 

Marcus hates to admit it, but he’s getting the sinking feeling that Chaz is right. That John is, despite being _unfairly_ good looking and apparently unable to handle household tools in a normal way, perhaps just biding his time to –

“Can I ask you something?” 

John’s mouth twitches. “I might not answer.” 

“Fair,” Marcus says. “I guess the question is a bit offensive.” 

“Oh?” 

Marcus sighs. He needs to closely examine his choices. So far, he’s between _are you a serial killer?_ and _are you planning to break into my apartment with a screwdriver?_

These are sterling life choices. Marcus is so proud of himself right now. 

Finally, Marcus turns the last screw on John’s new IKEA table. “...Can I have my screwdriver back?” 

John blinks, “Sure. Is that the question?” 

“No,” Marcus presses a hand to his forehead. “The question is.” 

Fuck it. 

“...Do you want to come over for dinner?” 

John stares at him for a moment longer, and he grins in a way that makes Marcus’s stomach flip. Like he’s got vertigo again. Except his feet (and even his ass) are on the floor so it’s not that. John says, “I’d like that.” 

 

Princess’s reaction to seeing John again is not exactly a positive one. Upon noting that her owner isn’t exactly alone, her reaction is to scurry up the side of the wall near the entryway of the apartment and makes a bold leap for John’s head. 

“Duck,” Marcus says. “Now.” 

John does better than duck. In fact, Marcus has no idea what John has actually done, only to note that John pivots on one heel, bends, and manages to nab Princess by the back of her neck in mid-leap, and Marcus doesn’t think he has ever heard his cat _yowl_ like that. It’s a sound he doesn’t think he ever wants to hear again.

“I’m not hurting her,” John says, almost sounding uncertain himself. “Promise. I’ll put her down now.”

He does, and the Princess seems at first confused by the change of scene. She stops yowling, checks the carpet for permanence with her paw and gives Marcus a scalding look. 

“What? You shouldn’t have jumped at his head,” Marcus tells his cat. Because of course, that’s something he has to tell his cat. 

”...She gonna be okay?” 

“She’s a tough cookie, she is.” Marcus stares as Princess drags herself to the study, and tries to not regret his decision to invite a ninja into his apartment. Now it’s a three-way tie. _Are you a fucking ninja?_ “I think she’s just in shock.” 

 

Marcus is, wouldn’t you believe it, a halfway decent cook. He’d spent one summer slumming it in a roadside cafe just grilling burgers. And then someone had made him watch _Twin Peaks_ , which instilled in Marcus a phobia of secluded roadside diners that’s unfortunately still in play today. He’d had to quit the job. 

Point being, Marcus really is making all this all up as he goes along. You missed a hundred percent of the shots you didn’t take and since his record was appalling anyway, what’s the harm? 

If John at any point wishes Marcus any bodily harm, then there is almost no chance of Marcus retaliating effectively what given the ninja cat grab. He is possibly never going to get over that. 

So hey, might as well enjoy the view. John is, all of his weirdness aside, a hell of a view. 

Marcus clears his throat. “I was thinking of cooking something.”

“You cook?” 

“Yeah,” there is something innocuous about John’s surprise, and it’s that same something that makes Marcus want to go red like some schoolboy this side of new to puberty. “Do you think I subside on takeout?” 

John shrugs, “I do? Subside on takeout, that is. Not that I think you do. I don’t know what to think of you.” 

Marcus studies the other man for a moment and decides that it must be a compliment, He doesn’t think his fragile ego can take it any other way. 

 

“...How did you even,” Marcus stares. “Should I call an ambulance? Or I can drive you to the hospital? _Fuck_.” 

Teaching John to cook is apparently a wash because the man can’t manage to chop celery properly. Marcus doesn’t think he has even seen that much blood in real life. 

“It’s not serious,” John peers at the wound. “I can fix it.” 

Marcus doesn’t think he can ever cook in his kitchen again. He probably has to has the place fumigated and professionally cleaned. “...You can fix it how?” 

“Might need your help,” John looks at him steadily. “Do you sew?” 

“Yeah. I mean. Buttons?” Marcus says faintly. “John, you've nearly sliced off your finger, you need a doctor. Okay? None of this...weird crap.” 

“If I flipped out every time I almost lost a finger, I don’t think I’d be alive,” John says. “Trust me. But I do need you to get some things from my apartment. Okay? Do that for me?” 

 

Daisy follows Marcus into John’s bathroom, where Marcus discovers that he and John apparently use the same brand of toothpaste. Any other circumstance, Marcus would have focused more on that detail. 

“Your owner is weird,” Marcus says, as he searches through the shelves above the toilet. The medical kit is tucked away where John had told him it was exactly. 

Daisy makes a noise in her throat that isn’t exactly disagreement. It isn’t until Marcus leaves with the first aid kit tucked under his arm that he realizes that Daisy is standing next to him as he is trying to get a hold of his keys. 

Daisy’s stare is a lot like John’s. Except instead of staring into the abyss, he’s staring at a _dog_ , and that is never going to end well. Finally, Marcus shakes his head. “All right, come on.” 

He lets himself in and Daisy makes a beeline for John who has now apparently made himself comfortable on Marcus’s kitchen floor, but his eyes widen when he sees Daisy scampering towards him.

“Don’t come.” 

Daisy skids to a stop and tucks her tail between her legs. She looks between them, her expression positively catlike in how put out it is. 

“Why’s she here?” 

“She followed me in,” Marcus says, kneeling beside him. “Sorry that I’m more concerned about you bleeding to death.” 

John looks at him. “It’s just my finger.”

“Just your. Forget it,” Marcus holds up his hands. “Forget it, just. What do you want me to do?” 

He doesn’t end up doing much outside of threading the needle. Medical suture feels different than normal thread, but he couldn’t tell you why. Then, John asks for some liquor to tie him over. Though Marcus wants to remind his neighbor that he is apparently good with pain (just to salvage some of his dick cred), he goes looking for liquor and only comes up with shit vodka. The kind only suitable for cooking. 

“...More of a wine guy,” Marcus offers. “But I guess you can drink that if you want.” 

John says, “It’s going to take a lot of wine.” 

“I have a lot of wine,” Marcus says grandly. “Hang on.” In fact, wine is a fantastic idea. 

 

It’s only when Marcus pops the cork to the third bottle of Zinfandel that he realizes that this whole evening has gone sort of...very awry. And that even though John has availed himself to most of that wine, Marcus has had at least most of a bottle, because when in Rome. They’ve still not eaten, his kitchen is bloody, and Daisy is sitting snug against the crook of his knee. 

As for John’s finger, he has managed to sew up the deep slash across his skin. It’s still an ugly jagged scar, but the man doesn’t seem too concerned. 

John reaches and settles a hand on Marcus’s knee, the touch light enough at first that Marcus thinks that John has simply mistaken Marcus’s knee for Daisy’s head or something, but then Marcus is conscious of a deliberate press of a thumb into the bone of his knee. 

Okay, interesting. 

“Sorry about your kitchen,” John says. 

Marcus drinks more Zinfandel from the bottle. “Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time. Whatever.” (It doesn't.) 

“I know a guy,” John says. “Could send him over to your place. As early as tomorrow.” 

Marcus closes his eyes. “What does this guy do?” 

“He cleans,” John says vaguely. “He’s very good at it.” 

Marcus leans forward and notes that there is a little bit of blood near the side of his jaw. He finds that the blood has dried and before he goes to lick the tip of his own thumb, he looks towards John, whose gaze is steady as water. “Okay?” 

“My bloodtype is AB,” John offers. “I’m not diseased.” 

Marcus’s hand stutters. “That’s not what I. Wow.” There is a lot more to say to that. But given the circumstances, “wow” probably just about covers everything that could otherwise be said. 

“Sorry,” John says quickly. “I’m not.” 

“Oh, you’re not,” Marcus swallows. “Yeah, okay, fine.” It’s probably his own fault, getting excited when he hears a kindred spirit say that he has no friends. Except John isn’t so much Marcus’s kindred anything as he is just good looking and strange. 

“I meant,” John starts, and then a loud yowl comes from the kitchen. 

 

“Daisy, stop it. Come,” John says sternly. Daisy, with tail still wagging retreats, to sit on her haunches beside where John stands at the archway of Marcus’s kitchen. 

Marcus is wondering if he needs to take his cat to the vet’s and maybe get her some therapy. Is cat therapy a thing? Come to think of it, he could probably use some therapy. This amount of whiplash experienced by one psyche in one evening can’t possibly be healthy. 

“We can still go out and get some dinner,” John says, but Marcus can’t really tell if John is just saying that, paying him some sort of lip service because his cat is now covered in blood and traumatized from the intense affections of the neighbor’s dog. Marcus can’t remember the last time that Princess had so willingly climbed up his leg wanting something from him without the aid of catnip. 

“I’ve got,” Marcus gestures at himself. “Blood all over my pants. People are going to think I killed something. Someone.” 

Which is flimsy as all get out because John just blinks at him. “Don’t you have more than one pair of pants?” 

“Yeah,” Marcus looks around at the mess that is his kitchen. “I’m not hungry.” 

John frowns, “Marcus, I’m.” 

Marcus shrugs. He wills the gesture not to wilt too much. It’s always going to wilt a little, but a man’s got to have his pride, right? “Look, forget it, okay? Another time, maybe. I’m pretty drunk. I”m just going to go to bed. Can you let yourself out?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! This thing kept wanting to become a slow burn and I've decided to let it. So I hope nobody minds the extra chapters.
> 
> For your daily dose of extra, Marcus's mother is [Sigourney Weaver](https://wealtholino.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/Sigourney-Weaver-Net-Worth.jpg) and Chazz Rollo is [Jon Hamm](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/f6/e3/eb/f6e3eb4e4c8d68591f317b2df3d20189.jpg). Just look at that sweater.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Marcus wakes up, and he is hungover. He is hungover, and there is still blood on his pants. Which means there’s blood on his sheets but only a little. 

There’s also an incessant knock at his door, and since it’s the weekend, Marcus is just about deluded enough to think that whoever is standing on his welcome mat (recently cleaned) must be Helen with lox bagels from her favorite bakery near where she lived. 

“Hello,” says a man and his cohort of other men who lurked behind him. None of these people look remotely like Helen and why would they? Helen has a key. Marcus tries his best to not look so surprised, or so hungover. 

It’s probably not working on all counts.

“Can we come in?” 

Marcus looks blearily at his watch. It’s barely past eight on a Friday, which isn’t technically the weekend yet. But still, too early. “For what?” 

“I was made aware that something needed cleaning up at this address,” the man says, his smooth mannerisms starting exhibit cracks. Marcus gets the distinct feeling he is annoyed. 

“Did John send you?” 

The guy just kept looking at him. Having used a cleaning service (with a voucher) only a couple of times, this is...not that. Marcus finally steps back, feeling ridiculous because this is a scene straight out of those bad nineties flicks wherein an average guy just sort of does something inadvisable and kind of just has to deal with it. This is made even more absurd because it’s not like there’s a body in his kitchen or anything and –

 

“That’s it?” The guy says, looking unimpressed. The other two men with him turn their heads back to look at Marcus, who just kind of wants to die. The frequency with which this realization has visited him recently is a little alarming. Marcus decides that his suicidal tendencies must be a sign that he is finally ready to embrace postmodernism like everyone else. 

Or it might just be the pain. Marcus can’t even access his painkillers which are next to the catnip. 

What Marcus does is relieve his VitaMix, thankfully bloodless, and then realizes that he can’t do anything besides hook up the damn thing because his kitchen counter is still covered in dry blood. Add to that his nicest chopping board and his preferred knife used for fruits and vegetables is a goner, too. 

Come to think of it, this is a lot less blood than he remembers, but it’s still plenty of blood by, you know. Normal standards. 

“Where’s the body?” 

“Uh.” Marcus shuts his eyes tight and takes a deep breath. “What body? John just...he cut his finger.” 

They all stare at him for another long, excruciating minute. Then the boss guy just shakes his head. “Let’s just get to it, boys.” 

 

While the guys are getting to it, Marcus locks himself in his bedroom and wonders if his neighbor is some sort of fabled mafia hitman. Which is fine, Rick Masters knows a few (in the third book he makes off with some Russian cash and nearly dies when they threaten to put him through a woodchpper), but that’s on paper, unspooled from the depths of Marcus’s brain, and definitely not real life. 

Then Marcus makes a call and the other end picks up even before the first ring has finished. A woman’s voice sounds, no nonsense and remarkably awake for eight-thirty in the morning.

“Dr. Ophelia Ward.” 

Marcus draws in a deep breath. 

“Hello?” 

“...Hi, Mom.” 

“Marcus?” In an instance, his mother has changed from her professional therapist voice to sounding like his mother. It’s a relief because that’s not weird at all. “Sweetheart, did your cat die?” 

“No, I’m getting married. Wanted you to be the first to know.” 

“Really?” She sounds like she’s halfway on the verge, between wheezing with laughter and having a heart attack. The sound is again, very strange, but no stranger than what Marcus has had to deal with recently. 

“No.” Marcus exhales just as noisily through his nose. “Mom, if I drive to you, can we have lunch?” 

 

Marcus’s mother lives in Montauk, where she works as a sex therapist and occasionally runs Ayahuasca seminars after squaring it with the local hospital. It’s not as odd as you’d think, since Montauk is full of people with summer homes and everyone’s got a hangup. 

(Belatedly, Marcus is aware that he’s kind of lumped into that category, but he prefers not to think about it, that people like him is the reason that Dr. Ward’s private practice has a two months’ waitlist.) 

He drives three hours to Montauk with Princess not making a peep in her carrier. She must really be traumatized. At a junction, Marcus shoves some catnip through the hole of the carrier. 

“You’ve brought your cat to lunch,” says his mother. 

“Um,” Marcus says. “Yes. It’s kind of. I’ve had a weird couple of days.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

Ophelia Ward is sixty-five and looks not a day past fifty. Her hair is thinner now, but its sheen is still healthy and auburn. She also is also tall, which means that she has this habit of staring down at him which makes Marcus feel tiny. But all things considered, it’s at least something he is used to. And more importantly, Marcus doesn’t find it strange. 

“Is it the Netflix thing?” Ophelia says. “I read about it. It’s not going to descend into development hell, is it? Are you stressed?” 

“Fuck knows,” Marcus says. “But it’s not that.” He is stressed, but that’s not worth talking about. 

“Is it Helen?” 

Ophelia finds it weird that her only son, who happens to be very much into dick, would continually hold the rapt attention of a very pretty late-twenty-something journalist who once dated a football player. But Ophelia tolerates it, perhaps because then she gets to entertain, even briefly, the notion of grandchildren. 

But it’s not something they talk about overly much. “No. It’s.” 

Ophelia pats his hand. “Maybe we can go get some lunch.” 

His mother’s house is coveted beachfront property, and a stone’s throw to a family restaurant (Est. 1997) called the Lobster Roll, which serves fresh lobster and crisp pinot grigio in carafes which is, for the moment, more interesting to Marcus.

It’s only when he catches his mother staring that Marcus clears his throat. “So I’m working on something.” 

“Shoot.” 

“There’s this guy, and he gets a new neighbor. The neighbor is strange.” 

“How strange?” 

“He enjoys spelunking, or rock climbing. Enjoys pain. Maybe. Isn’t stupid. But he can’t put together IKEA furniture. And he’s possibly a ninja.” 

“Honey,” Ophelia drags out the word. “I think you missed out the kitchen sink.” 

“That’s what I think too.” 

His mother opens her mouth, possibly to tell him to cut it out, his bullshit. But then Marcus’s cell rings and he’s glad for some reprieve. “Hey, Helen.” 

“This is going to sound,” Helen starts. 

“Crazy?” 

“John thinks you’ve been kidnapped,” Helen says. “He’s freaking out in my apartment.” 

“How does he know where you live?” 

“I figured you told him, or something,” Helen pauses. “Tell me you did.” 

“I didn’t.” 

Helen makes a sound in her throat. “I mean. He seems worried? What’d you do?” 

Marcus raises his eyes to Ophelia, who is half looking at him and half staring at the dwindling carafe of wine. “Hang on.” Covering the phone with his hand for the moment. “Don’t suppose you want to meet the kitchen sink, Mom.” 

His mother deadpans, “Knew he was too weird for you to make him up. You’re always so unadventurous, Marcus. Certainly, I’d love to make a sentient piece of kitchen equipment that makes you –” 

“Please don’t,” Marcus says. 

“Lips are sealed,” Ophelia says. She flags down a waitress and asks for another carafe of wine and Marcus thinks about telling her not to. Then again, the best way to cure a hangover is to keep on drinking. 

So he doesn’t. To Helen, he says, “Still there?” 

“Yeah. Where are you? Assuming you’re not kidnapped.” 

Yep, Marcus is definitely going to keep on drinking. “I’m in Montauk. Seeing my mother.” 

“I say hello,” Helen says. “And John wants to speak to you.” 

“I don’t want to speak to John,” Marcus says, but he knows the phone has already changed hands by the muffled sound of Helen’s voice. And it’s not that he doesn’t want to speak to John, it’s just that –

“Hey,” John says over the phone. “Are you okay?” 

Marcus’s dignity is not quite okay. He doubts that his dignity will ever be okay again, but it is kind of nice to know that John has such concern for his well being. Even if the context makes no sense. “Sure, fine. Some guys came by the apartment this morning?” 

“Hm,” John makes an unsurprised sound. “Charlie did do a good job, right? I told them to.” 

(“Charlie” and his cohorts had indeed left Marcus’s kitchen spotless. Not a drop of blood to be found. If he could Yelp them he’d probably give them five stars.) 

Marcus presses a hand to his forehead and upon noticing that his mother is definitely regarding him with interest, he lets out a noisy sigh. “Where’d you get the notion I was kidnapped?” 

“You know,” says John vaguely. And Marcus really doesn’t. 

So he says, “Well, don’t do that again. You’ll scare Helen.” 

“I don’t think she’s scared,” John says. “She just thinks it’s funny and told me to have a bagel. It’s not funny, Marcus. Kidnapping is not funny.” 

“I’m not kidnapped and everything’s fine. Well, sort of.” John’s earnestness kind of tips this into funny, and Marcus finds it difficult to stay mad (not that he’s mad) or embarrassed because embarrassment requires context and it’s a little hard to work up the energy to be embarrassed when John just defies context. 

“You’re not mad at me?” 

His mother’s mouth does that funny thing it does, sometimes. Marcus resists the urge to kick her under the table, because he’s at least three decades too old for that; instead, he shoves his empty wine glass forward and it gets filled. Hey. 

“No, John, I’m not mad. I’m.” _Perturbed, confused, desperate. All of the above._ Marcus clears his throat, “Have you ever been to Montauk?” 

“Isn’t that hours away? I’ve never been.” 

“Four, maybe now, with traffic. But it’s where I am.” 

“What’s in Montauk?” 

Marcus should really be more perturbed that Ophelia is just sitting there swiping through her phone and watching her flesh and blood toe the line between polite conversation and insanity. 

“The beach. Nice lobster. My mother.” 

Now Ophelia looks up, and Marcus wonders if he’s said too much. But then no, because if John rocks up here to Montauk, a meeting between these two would be inevitable. Maybe there is something to be said about Marcus’s sense of unadventurousness. He isn’t really unadventurous as he is practical, which people should appreciate more, but they don’t. 

“You’d let me meet your mother?” John says, a more than a touch disbelieving. Marcus hates to think it, but in the short time he’s known his neighbor, that’s one of the most normal things to have come out of John’s mouth. How does that saying go again? Don’t go shooting yourself in the foot? 

“I don’t know,” Marcus says. “Are you going to ninja her, too?” 

“I don’t ninja anything,” John tells him. “What do you mean?” 

“What do you call what you did with Princess?” 

“Self defense.” 

“She’s a _cat_ ,” Marcus presses. “She’s a traumatized cat that now _follows me around_.” It’s not exactly untrue though perhaps a slight exaggeration. But it was definitely the case that Princess had a bit of an episode when Marcus parked her down to go for lunch. He is running out of catnip.

“Is that such a bad thing?” John asks. “It just means somebody likes you.” 

An unfamiliar rush of color has crept up Marcus’s neck, only to be stopped in its tracks (thankfully) by the memory of _my blood type is AB_. “Is that what this is, John? You like me?” 

Unfortunately, the red’s making some progress now, if only because Ophelia has one of those razor sharp and designed to get you through exposure therapy or _else._ Marcus suddenly has an urge to hang up the phone, right now. 

But then John says, completely and utterly without pretense. “Yes. So what? Do you think I could bring Daisy? She really likes the beach.” 

 

Ophelia opens her mouth after Marcus gets off the phone, and Marcus all but lunges for his glass of wine to barricade himself against whatever practical advice she’s about to hurl at him. Marcus doesn’t have anything against practical advice, but it's not a great feeling.

But all his mother says is, “What did he do to your cat, now?” 

“Ah,” Marcus drags out the sound. “Um. It’s a kind of a long story.” 

“Lucky for you, my calendar’s wide open until three.” 

“You didn’t have to do that.” 

“Who said it was for you?” Ophelia reaches for her own wine and fixes him with a look. Marcus can’t tell if that look means that she has finally given up on him or something else. “Maybe I just wanted a drink.” 

 

Thankfully, the subject of Marcus’s impending pages (which have to include sex) never comes up. He is good at keeping his mouth shut sometimes. Three o’ clock rolls around and he retreats to the second reception room upstairs, which is off-limits to clients so it’s not like he’ll disturb anyone up here. 

It sometimes feels strange coming back to the house he grew up in. Marcus certainly hadn’t been miserable here, but nor had he been particularly happy. His father had been aloof, and his mother had been busy (in his mind, there’s a difference.) And then his father had died somewhere overseas, and that was that. 

Marcus supposes that things don’t tend to bother him that much. Which is why this whole business with John is bizarre. It reads like something that should be written instead of something that’s occurring in his real life, right now. 

A small unhappy mewl catches his attention and Marcus is glad for an excuse to turn away from the blank screen where he’d previously written in 48-point Times New Roman, _DOES RICK MASTERS LIKE ANAL?_

Hey, brainstorming is part of the process. 

And then he’d deleted it. 

Princess is there, sat at the foot of the couch looking impossibly doglike. She fixes Marcus with a baleful enough look that he almost recognizes her again, and he says, “What? Not stopping you from coming up here.” 

She hops up and finds a space near his feet. They stare at each other some more, and then Princess turns her attention to her paws. Marcus doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this. 

And then someone says, “Do you actually live here?” 

Without looking up, Marcus says, “You’re not allowed up here. If you’re looking for Dr. Ward, it’s downstairs, the last door on the – hey. Hey, Princess, stop. You’re going to –”

Before Marcus can adjust himself properly to lift Princess off of his keyboard, John steps forward and plucks the laptop off of Marcus’s lap. Marcus is suddenly terrified that the dregs of his brainstorming would be on full display (and of course that is the first thing he’s worried about) but it isn’t. 

“How’d you get in?” 

“Door was unlocked,” John says. “I don’t always break into people’s houses, you know.” 

“I,” Marcus starts and stops. “You know what, I’m going to let that one go. How was the drive?” 

“Long,” John says. “Helen didn’t want to come.” 

It’s still a tossup whether Marcus will thank her or something else. But that’s later. Marcus shifts over now to make room, much to his cat’s yowling dismay. The yowling brings the familiar pattering of happy dog feet as Daisy sniffs her way into the room. The beagle makes a beeline for Marcus, and this time he is kind of prepared. 

“But Daisy enjoyed the drive,” John settles in next to him and puts the laptop to one side. “I think.” 

“She’s a good dog,” Marcus says, with feeling. “How’s the finger?” 

John makes a show of checking it. “Still attached. I’ve been through worse, anyway.” 

“Oh.” Marcus is _trying_. Really, he is, but when John says stuff like this, it just kind of kills off the conversation. He finds that he maybe wants to ask John whether he’d enjoyed the bagels from Helen’s favorite deli, but then John will probably come up with some completely earnest story about how he’d once used a bagel to choke somebody to death. 

Or maybe not. Still, it's probably within the realm of possibility. 

“Hey, Marcus.” 

“Hm?” 

“I’m glad you’re not kidnapped,” John says. 

“Me too,” Marcus glances at him. 

“Can we just um,” John sticks out his hand. “Start over or something? Like hi, I’m John.” 

Marcus takes his hand and tries not to think about the scar right along the man’s finger. “Yeah, we can. Hi, John.”


	5. Chapter 5

You know that feeling sometimes when you think you can take a deep breath and think, _right_. The worst is over. Things are going to be less weird now; I can handle my shit? Marcus is thinking that. This is okay, John hasn’t broken into his mother’s house because he doesn’t break into houses all the time. That sentence makes more sense every time Marcus turns it over in his head. 

And John _has_ just driven something like four hours to check up on Marcus after a nonexistent crisis. That doesn’t exactly count as just standard neighborly behavior. 

But before Marcus gets his hopes up, he reminds himself yet again that nothing about his neighbor is normal. John isn’t even particularly good looking in the way that average people are, which is again, unfair. 

Marcus presses his thumb in between the bumps of John’s knuckles and the man looks at him. “What?” 

“Did you break into my apartment?” 

John has the decency to look a little sheepish. Then he ducks Marcus’s probing stare and looks away. “Okay. Yes. But I was worried, and I did lock up when I left. And I didn’t go through your stuff too much.” 

“I’m so glad you didn’t find my porn stash,” Marcus says, because that’s the first out there thing that pops into his head, and also the only thing that has a hope of standing against the fact that John has broken into his place. 

“You have a porn stash?” 

Marcus thinks: John knows what a porn stash is; that is refreshingly normal, but not something he can work with. Then Marcus thinks that he probably should invest in a porn stash, given the way his life is going. Out loud, he says, “I’m not _that_ old. Did you use a screwdriver?” 

John mutters, “Well.” 

Marcus nudges him in the ribs. “Come on, you already told me the unsexy bit and I haven’t called the police. At least let me in on the fun part.” 

“Please don’t call the police,” John says. “Seriously, it probably won’t end well for the police.” 

Marcus thinks: _I have the hots for a domestic terrorist._ He is possibly still drunk. “I believe you.” 

“I did use a screwdriver,” John says. “If you got one lying around I can show you how?” 

 

The fact that her owner is well-versed regular criminal doesn’t seem to faze Daisy at all. Somehow, the very present reality that John is nice to his dog (and by extension, pleasant enough to Marcus) that it doesn’t really square with “seriously, it probably won’t end well for the police.” 

But still, Marcus believes John anyway, and sits cross-legged in the hallway in front of his bedroom while John tells him about telling the difference between a standard keyed lock, or a combination lock. These are things that Marcus kind of knows already, but a practical demonstration beats WikiHow everytime. 

(He used to have a guy who he consults about this at Home Depot. But then the idiot had to go and get himself arrested, which, among other things, has left Marcus with crippling doubts about the quality of his criminal connections.) 

Daisy, meanwhile, has found a contented little nook under Marcus’s arm with her nose resting against his leg. 

“And then it should click and,” John turns the knob. It gives, and the door to Marcus’s teenage bedroom opens. He is suddenly terrified of what John might find inside, but then remembers that Ophelia’s turned this whole side of the second floor into some sort of guest wing. 

“So you can pick a lock with a fucking _screwdriver_ but you can’t put together furniture from IKEA.” That’s what Marcus comes away with. 

“I’m not great at directions,” John says. “I like making things up as I go. Can I look inside?” 

Somehow, Marcus believes that too. “It’s not going to be interesting. Mom had the whole room redone after I moved out.” 

“Too bad,” John says, and goes inside. “Was thinking I might find a porn stash under the bed or something.” 

“What.” 

“I’m joking,” John says, and Marcus unfolds himself from his position in front of the doorway and scoops up Daisy on his way.

“Yeah, okay. Maybe that’s something you have to work on, too.” Marcus deadpans as he steps into the room behind John. The room, thankfully, has no trace of his sad young life in it. The sheets are clean, the bed made. The most personable thing in the room is a bookshelf where Chaz Rollo has got pride of place. On top of the bookshelf is a vase of fresh violets. 

“Your mother reads these too?” John says. He skims his fingers over the worn spines.

“I keep telling her not to,” Marcus says. And he does. Next, he’ll have to convince her not to watch the damn thing on Netflix. 

“Why?” John asks, and he sounds so earnest that Marcus thinks to himself that John can’t be a criminal. But he knows that’s a lie. Maybe. What. “It’s not like you wrote them.” 

“I,” Marcus hesitates a moment too long and John sees it. Fantastic. 

“You _wrote_ these,” John says, half-disbelieving. He swipes _Masters of Fire_ off the shelf, presumably to check the back cover for an author’s photo. There is one, but it is tiny. Though that doesn’t take away from the fact that Chaz is wearing an awful shirt for the photograph and that he and Marcus look nothing alike. “But this isn’t you. It’s...the guy in your apartment.” 

“We know each other,” Marcus says vaguely. “It’s my job to make him look not stupid when he goes out into public.” 

“That sounds like a terrible job,” John says, making a face. 

“At least I _have_ a job,” Marcus says. He doesn’t even know really, why he’s suddenly sour on it. It’s something that he’s known for years, something that both his mother and Helen have halfheartedly tried to dissuade him from for years. One’s given up in a _que sera, sera_ kind of way, and the other has since found better things to do. It’s not as if Marcus has a terrible life. But standing here in front of John and all of his secrets, it’s like Marcus’s life is suddenly tiny and insignificant. Most of all, unknowable to him. 

“What are you even retired from? CIA? Are you in witness protection for something terrible?” The middle of New York City seems counterintuitive for purposes of WitSec, but then Marcus thinks, that weirder things have been known to happen and. And, it’s not as if Marcus is any great expert on WitSec. If he goes asking questions, maybe somebody will get arrested. Again. 

John’s mouth twitches on one side. And then he says, “Do we have to talk about it now? We’re meant to be starting over.” 

Marcus lets out a breath he hadn’t been entirely aware of holding. “I don’t hate my job, okay. I get lots of free time. Most of the time, I get to do what I want.” 

John says, “And what you want is to hide away in your mother’s house.” 

That stings more than he thinks it ought to. It hurts enough that Marcus forgets to be humiliated by the thought that at this side of being middle-aged, he would be stuck _running back to his mother’s house_. 

“Okay,” Marcus says, crossing his way over to John. “Let’s really start over.” Judging by the way John’s pupils blow big, he’s not expecting that. 

For once, he’s glad to see that he’s caught the other man off guard. Even if John is the kind of guy who likes to play his cards close to the chest, make things up, it’s a little gratifying to see John going just a bit cross-eyed at the fact that Marcus is being forward. (Is it really _that_ surprising?) 

A little whine makes Marcus look down. Daisy is giving him one of those doglike looks that he has no idea what to do with. 

John says, “You can let her down if you want.” 

“I,” Marcus glances down at Daisy again. He matches her stare for stare, until he bends and lets her down onto the carpet. She looks offended. Marcus has to remind himself that Daisy _is_ just a dog. 

“What were we starting over with?” John prods, and Marcus rolls his eyes.

“You’re a dick for breaking into my apartment,” Marcus tells him, just to make things clear. But then he leans two inches closer and it’s all muscle memory from there. At least, Marcus hopes it is. 

“Maybe a little,” John admits in what little space remains in between them and does the rest of the work. Before that, he says, “But I was worried about you, mostly.” 

When they kiss, Marcus worries too, about whether or John’s going to taste the pinot grigio that he’d been so keen to inhale at lunch. But then he thinks that John must not really mind. 

The kiss is a bit wet, too much tongue all at once, as if they’re _both_ not used to this degree of human contact. This is somehow, more of a relief to Marcus than he’d care to admit. 

“Hang on,” Marcus pulls away from John a moment, but still close enough to hear the man’s next inhale.

John says, “What…” 

“Here,” Marcus says as he leans in again, splaying his fingers across John’s jaw to guide him down. This time, it is so much better. 

 

“Marcus Alan Ward, I think you’ve undersold the kitchen sink.” His mother says, from somewhere. Ophelia is not someone who would just barge in a room, so they must have left the door open.

Marcus, wouldn’t you believe it, has developed grand strategies for dealing with life sucking all the time. Some tried and true options include: going out with Helen, hating himself for doing shots of sambuca, not leaving his apartment for three days afterwards with the likes of _Ed Sheeran_ stuck in his head, and finally, reminding himself that at this point and time he’s not seventeen with a boy in his room. It’s probably a relief to Ophelia to find him with company. Maybe she can even use him as advertising: _If my sad sack of a kid can do this thing, so can you!_

“Kitchen sink?” John says. For a moment he's surprised, because Marcus doesn’t have sufficient data to process why the man isn’t running for the hills. In fact, John is the opposite. Deadly calm, absolutely still, taking in the situation at hand. 

Marcus looks between his mother and John. He kind of wants to jump out a window anyway. “It’s a joke. Sort of.” 

Ophelia nods with a straight face (unlike Marcus, she’s had plenty of practice). “Absolutely a joke.” 

John thinks about it, shrugs. “I don’t get it.” 

“I’ll uh,” Marcus claps John on the shoulder. “Explain it to you later.” 

“Hello, John,” Ophelia steps into the room properly and extends her hand. Marcus gets out of the way and is gratified that John knows what a handshake is. He has no idea what John does or doesn’t know. “Do you want to stay for dinner?” 

John says, “I’d like that.” 

“You’re not allowed near any knives,” Marcus says. 

He can feel his mother turning that over in her head. What she does say is: “Why are your father’s tools out in the hallway, Marcus?” 

Marcus starts. “Ah. Because. I’ll put them away.” And he decides he’s not going to explain that to her later. 

 

“Are you trying to get my cat drunk?” 

John says, “It doesn’t have any alcohol. But it has catnip. They’ve only made a thousand bottles to make sure that lonely single people don’t drink alone at Christmas.” 

Marcus stands in his mother’s kitchen skinning tomatoes to bake with some cod fillets that need using up. He has declared that John be at least twenty feet from any sharp object at all times, and for someone who doesn’t like explicit instructions, John has so far stuck to it. 

He puts the knife down and goes over to the opposing island, where John is standing next to a bottle of wine – wine made especially for cats that’s imported from overseas. Marcus is wondering if he should add “smuggler” to the ever growing list of things that might have been John’s former job. 

Except he doesn’t say that and says, “John, it’s August.” 

“It’s not technically on market yet.” 

“Oh.” 

“Anyway, I just thought. Maybe Princess will be less traumatized if she had something to drink.” 

“You mean, like me?” 

John stares at him for a long moment, and Marcus thinks that he must have said something he hadn’t meant to again. But John reaches for his hand and Marcus looks down. John says, “Thank you.” 

“What for?” 

“For not asking,” John says. “About, you know. It’s always a bit hard to explain.”

“I make shit up for a living,” Marcus points out gamely. “I’m sure whatever is in my head is much worse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried really hard to work in the fact that this [wine for cats](https://kotaku.com/introducing-japanese-wine-for-uh-cats-1445498718) is called Nyan Nyan Noveau, which is "either the sound of cats meowing or people screwing." Couldn't manage it. Hope it makes you laugh, anyway. 
> 
> More things were supposed to happen in this chapter, but I decided they probably just needed a bit of a cuddle given the sort of other things I've been writing lately. Also somebody sent me a clip of _Antichrist_ and I just. I need a hug too.


	6. Chapter 6

At some point John leaves the table and Marcus gives him directions to the bathroom farthest away from the dining room all the way up on the second floor (only a little bit on purpose). He can feel his mother judging him. 

But because Ophelia already knows that he knows, she doesn’t mention it out loud. Instead, she says, “What’s the matter now?” 

“Nothing’s the matter,” Marcus says. “Well, except,” he glances down. Princess is more or less comatose by his chair. That cat booze must be some pretty strong stuff. He pokes her with his toe and she twists around to give him a look. The motion seems to have taken a lot of effort. “Oh good, still alive.” 

“Marcus.” 

Marcus sighs, “What am I doing, Mom?” 

Ophelia thinks about her answer. Whenever his mother is thinking, it is perhaps a very bad sign. It means she’s tempering whatever she _wants_ to say into something that he _needs_ to hear, while making sure that Marcus’s ever fragile ego won’t crack. (It has a few times, but that hadn’t had anything to do with her.) “Did I ever tell you what happened when your father tried to propose to me?” 

“That he did it not fifty feet from this house and he lost the ring?” Marcus recites, and from not even distant memory. He’s not unfamiliar with this story. But every time it resurfaces in conversation, it feels like she always has a way of spinning the story to tell him yet something else. At least someone else is getting a lot of mileage out of August Ward’s fuckup, 

“Well, the ring did turn up,” Ophelia says fairly. “After we looked for it for...oh, maybe two hours. Some tourists helped.” 

“It was three hours the last time you told it,” Marcus reminds her. “And forty-five minutes that other time.” 

“I think you’re missing the point, son,” Ophelia puts down her her utensils. “The point is, sometimes details aren’t that important. You’re not living in one of your books, honey. Things are supposed to not make sense. If they do, then isn’t your life just the most boring thing?” 

“Maybe I like being bored,” Marcus says, and then shuts up because John has come back to the table. 

 

It’s probably going to be near midnight by the time they get back to the city. But Marcus doesn’t have a real job, and John is retired, so Marcus suggests they take Daisy on a walk before she has to be cooped up in a car for hours on end, again. 

“Thought you weren’t a dog person,” John says, peering at him curiously. 

“I’m not really,” Marcus says. “But I’m also not evil. And you’ve turned my cat into a goddamn dog. I’m getting practice in where I can.” 

John shrugs. “Sorry?” 

Marcus fixes him with a look. “You’re not, though.” 

John gives a little whistle and Daisy bounds back to them from the edge of the sea, muddy paws now leaving wet prints in the sand. “You know what?” 

“What?” Marcus looks up at him. 

“Today’s got to be the most normal day of my life. I even had breakfast.” 

Marcus decides that he is going to get better at letting things go. There’s no time to stick to this like the present. He says, “Bagel?”

John nods. “It was pretty good.” 

Marcus decides not to remind him too, that earlier today, John had also broken into his apartment and thought he’d been kidnapped. It’s all in the “Do you usually not have breakfast?” 

“My job doesn’t really,” John stops. “No, I don’t usually have breakfast. But I think I should start. Helen says I should.” 

“Helen knows best,” Marcus agrees.

 

Except when Helen doesn’t. 

Or maybe Helen _does_ , by virtue of being on the phone to Marcus’s mother a fair amount. Marcus’s mother, who definitely thinks Marcus should get out more. One weekend, they end up in a club called the World’s End and to Marcus it certainly sounds like the world is ending. He’s more than prepared to give the guy the benefit of the doubt and say that he’s got 

For whatever reason, Chaz Rollo is here too, and Marcus is suddenly terrified that Helen and Chaz are going to bang and somehow it’s going to be his fault. 

Helen gave him a look. “Don’t say bang, Marcus. That’s like so, I don’t know. Nineties.” 

“I miss the nineties,” Marcus says. It is not completely a lie.

“I have seen a picture of you in the nineties, sweetie. No, you don’t.” Helen squeezes his hip feelingly. “Anyway, I’ve called John so you can stop staring at us like a creeper.” 

“I thought you found it morally unacceptable that Chaz couldn’t read.” 

Helen’s gaze sidles away from him. “Yeah, but he’ll dance. And you won’t.” 

“I need more sambuca. Just give me a minute.” 

But then she wanders away with a freshly pink neon monstrosity of a drink, and Marcus is going to take it as a sign that he’s absolved from whatever happens. He doesn’t like going out much, but still does, because life is full of a guy doing things that he doesn’t want to do. 

Besides, it’s a reprieve he’s been fielding passive aggressive e-mails about his sexy pages which are on the verge, but are still not quite. Apparently, some bonehead executive producer decided that Rick Masters should be billed as some sort of nouveau sexpot villain. Angela apologises about this, but honestly, it’s not as if Marcus isn’t without…

In the end, Angela settles on the word _resources_ , which somehow sounds even worse than anything else that Marcus thought she could have chosen. 

As a response, he’d written an incredibly petty e-mail to Netflix’s head of programming calling the whole project a pathetic attempt to match HBO boob for boob. 

(Caveat: Marcus had been very drunk when he’d drafted said e-mail; it’d seemed like a good idea at the time. It was a tossup whether he’d actually sent it. So far, he hadn’t had the courage to look. It’s probably another reason why he’s out here killing time.) 

“Hey,” John says, suddenly appearing at Marcus’s elbow like a shadow. Marcus is either on his way to pissed, or John is very good at being quiet. Marcus marginally prefers one over the other, but anyway.

He gestures“Have some of this, you need to catch up.” 

John stares at the shot of sambuca as if it’s some kind of rat poison. “Why are you drinking this?” 

“What?” 

John leans in and Marcus feels the intoxicating heat of him pressing into his body and he would have pulled John all the way in for a kiss, but he’s suddenly aware again, that they’re being watched. 

Marcus swallows a shot, using that as an excuse to put a bit of space between them. “It’s sambuca, John. Don’t knock it until you try it.” 

John doesn’t say anything. 

Which is just as well because Chaz fucking Rollo is suddenly up in everyone’s business (i.e. in his element). He slings an arm “Hey! It’s the crazy kid! I didn’t think you would.” 

_Oh I don't know, I don't know, oh, where to begin_  
When we're North American  
But in the end we make the same mistakes all over again  
Come on North Americans 

John says, stiffening, “I’m not crazy.” He simmers, thinking. Probably about how he’s going to punch Chaz in the face. Chaz does have a very punchable face, in John’s defence, while he’s not holding pizza. 

Chaz blinks at him. “You _say_ that. But, dude.” 

Marcus is thinking he needs a lot more sambuca. But then, he thinks that if he has any more sambuca he might actually fall over and do something stupid. So really, it’s a hard call. Besides, the current situation with Chaz and John might blow up at any minute and maybe Marcus needs his wits about him. 

Helen appears at Marcus’s elbow and says, “Or you could just get the hell out of here. I’ve got this.” 

Marcus looks at her. “Do you?” The way she’s swaying in lethal looking spike heels gives him the heebie-jeebies, mostly because he thinks she’s going to keel over and break her ankle in five places. 

Either Helen looks actually offended or Marcus is about to stroke out from all the strobe lights. He’s never going to come out again, but he also thinks that every time. He “Careful, you might start to sound like your mother.” 

“At this point, I’ll start to take that as a compliment.” Marcus rolls his eyes. “C’mon John, let’s get out of here.” 

 

John looks back at the entrance of the club. Marcus suddenly gets a bad feeling. “What are you thinking?”

“Killing that son of a bitch,” John says without missing a beat. It’s not like he’s not even thought of any sort of alternative. The surety of it kind of makes Marcus’s head spin and he feels bad for finding it attractive. Then he comes back to himself. 

“Please don’t do that. It’ll be a mess to clean up.”

“I do know a guy.”

John did know a guy. And by extension Marcus now knows the guy too and...maybe Charlie would be amenable to discussing his technique over a drink or something. You never knew what might be useful. 

The cool air outside makes Marcus almost dizzy. The better angels of his nature is telling him that he should probably go home. It’s a bonus if he gets John to come with even if he might be this side of too drunk to try anything. “I don’t even know what to say to that.” And he doesn’t. 

John just looks at him again. “Okay. So I won’t. But can I take you somewhere?” 

 

“Somewhere” is a hotel. The lobby is teeming with people. But the sea of people part in front of John like a sea parting in front of Jesus fucking Christ. Okay. 

“Ah, Mr. Wick,” says the concierge, a tall dark man whose head glints almost sinisterly in the light. Suddenly, Marcus has to fight very hard not to throw up on the nice hotel carpet. “Are you after a room or…?” 

“Just a drink, Charon,” John says. He holds a hand under Marcus’s elbow. “Can he come too?” 

The concierge, Charon, gives Marcus a look. “So long as he doesn’t have anything alcoholic at the bar. Shall I alert the Manager?” For once, Marcus isn’t even going to argue with somebody curbing his alcohol consumption. 

“Is Winston around?” John glances around. “I mean, sure. I’d say hello.” 

 

“This is where I used to work,” John says, as they settle in at a table tucked away opposite the bar. 

“As what, a bellboy?” Marcus can’t help himself. He is pretty out of it, but maybe this is good. If he maintains this level of drunk, nothing will surprise him ever again. 

“Do I look like a bellboy?” John asks. 

“You want to kill idiots,” Marcus points out. “An intolerance of that nature is only honed and sharpened by a regular bullshit job. Bellboying definitely makes the list.” 

“I wasn’t a bellboy, I was –” And then John shut his mouth. “You’re trying to trick me.” 

“I do have to think like a con-man for a living,” Marcus reminds him blandly. “Granted, he’s cooler than I am. But, seriously. Aren’t you supposed to be retired?”

“I am retired.” John looks away. 

“Says the guy who is sitting in his former place of employment.” 

John skims the top of his drink, the dark brown whiskey rapidly changing color in the throes of melting ice. Or maybe Marcus is just losing his mind. This place is certainly shaped and run like a hotel bar, but there’s something just _off_ about it. Marcus can’t exactly say why, but the uncanny feeling pulls at the back of his head. 

“Or maybe this is the precipice of my comfort zone,” John says. 

“All right, you’re not allowed to say that,” Marcus says. He gulps the rest of his lemonade and taps his knuckle down on the polished wood surface. Somehow, telling himself that has always been a comfort. But hearing John say it just makes the whole thing sound sad and wrong. 

“Why not?” 

“Because,” Marcus draws out the word. He reaches for his glass only to remember that it is empty. 

John looks relieved. “Want another? I can get you another.” 

Marcus is about to nod, except a man strides up to their table and John doesn’t move from the edge of his chair. To Marcus, the guy doesn’t appear to be much, older, well-dressed, with eyes gleaming and deep enough to stop John in his tracks. John, who is certainly strange, but this is the first time Marcus has seen him hesitate on account of...something else. 

The man says, “Jonathan? When Charon said you were about, I thought I’d misheard.” 

John shrugs. “I guess I missed the discount.” 

“We don’t offer a discount.” 

The man looks at him so evenly that John finally looks away. Clearly, this is the sort of guy who takes no shit. If Marcus were any more sober, he’d be taking notes. 

Finally, Marcus offers, “It’s my fault. Where we were before was really noisy.” 

The man turns his gaze now on Marcus, and weirdly enough, Marcus has his mother to thank for this because he actually doesn’t want to die right away. See, Marcus can totally handle his shit. 

“I’ll have you know I run a very exclusive establishment.” 

Marcus looks down at himself. He is aware that he smells like he’s brought The World’s End into this man’s ‘exclusive establishment,’ but it’s not as if he’s badly dressed – even if there’s a spot of dried sambuca near his knee. He puts his hand over it. “I swear I’m housetrained.” 

This makes the man laugh, and something in Marcus’s chest loosens.

“Come on, Winston. I only brought him by because I know you like his books.” John says. He seems to have mostly come back to himself. “This is um.” 

Suddenly, Marcus panics. They’ve been hanging out a lot, and making out a lot, and maybe Marcus is trying to make John appreciate the merits of a breakfast smoothie. (It’s kind of tough going since John doesn’t seem to like avocado.) But aside from that, it's not as if they. 

(Helen’s opinion: “You know, for anyone else? That’s probably dump worthy.”) 

“My neighbor Chaz Rollo,” John says in a rush. “I’m going to get our drinks now. Do you want your usual?”

“Please,” Winston says and makes himself comfortable. Alarm bells are going all over the back of Marcus’s head and he braces himself. But it's not as if this is new. 

 

Winston is still. So still that Marcus almost thinks to check if he’s still breathing. 

“So aside from being housetrained and a pisspot of a liar, what else are you?” Winston says. Marcus is momentarily distracted by _pisspot_ and almost wishes he’d had a pen. 

“I don’t know,” Marcus tells the truth. “Probably wondering how somebody like him could be so fucking terrible at retirement.” 

Winston laughs, “Jonathan really is the worst, isn’t he?” 

There are a lot of things Marcus could say to that. But he says, “Well.” 

“How’s the dog?” 

Marcus blinks. “You mean Daisy?” 

“That’s her name,” Winston nods. “I’m awful with names.”

“She terrifies me,” Marcus admits. He still gets the feeling they are having two different conversations, though maybe they’re getting closer all the time. “But I think she’s doing fine. She keeps trying to be friends with my cat. John also tried to get my cat drunk.” 

“Friendship is often sealed with a good drink,” Winston says fairly. From his pocket, he takes out a square of paper. It looks to be some sort of receipt but Marcus doesn’t dare. Then Winston hands him a pen, one of those inky fountain ones with initials carved into the side. “...You don’t mind, do you? I am really a big fan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for your patience and apologies for the long wait! 
> 
> [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jmm14g4cAFc) is the most annoying, but also the most compelling song I've heard in quite a while. I thought it very fitting.


End file.
